A cool breeze does blow
You feel it as a hot wind
Change your perspective
Stumble It!
Archive for April, 2008
The setting is an elementary school music class. Mr. McLaren and his class of twenty 3rd graders are sitting in a circle at the bottom of a three-tiered half-circle room. Mr. McLaren is tall and skinny. He wears a patchy beard, and an ill-fitting light-gray blazer. His glasses give him the unmistakable look of a teacher.
The children chatter among themselves, that is, until Mr. McLaren reaches into the black guitar case at his side and brings out an electric guitar. It’s a Gibson SG, Angus Young-style, fiery red and devilish. He lays it on his lap.
The children go silent. A few even gasp.
MCLAREN: Now, class, this is an electric guitar. Can you all say that? EE-LECK-TRICK GIH-TAR.
ALL CLASS: LEC-TRIC GIH-TAR.
(a few say gut-tar, and one sneezes)
MCLAREN: Good. EE-lectric, make sure you say the E. (a few students whisper to themselves “ee-lectric”) The electric guitar. Where to begin? What does the electric guitar mean to you, children?
Sally Halstrom, a girl in one of those Little House on the Prairie dresses, raises her hand.
SALLY: Electric guitars come from Satan.
MCLAREN: Wrong. Electric guitars are actually built in…New Jersey. Did you know that children?
Children shake their heads, look dumbfounded, etc.
MCLAREN (stern): You can leave now Sally. For slandering the electric guitar, you’ll get five days detention with no recess.
Sally looks to her classmates for help.
MCLAREN (booming): I said, GET OUT OF MY CLASSROOM, SALLY!
Sally gets up, starts crying, and runs out the door.
MCLAREN (like a dove): Good, good. Now doesn’t that feel better? No more negative energy. Okay, back to the task at hand.
Mr. McLaren stands up, and plugs in his guitar to a Marshall half-stack amplifier that is beneath the chalkboard.
MCLAREN: This is an amp. Well, that’s short for amplifier, but that’s for another day. Today is an introduction to the power of the electric guitar. Now, behold…the rock.
Mr. McLaren turns on the amp, and cranks the gain knob. This is going to be awesome.
He puts a quick hand through his hair to messy it, and licks his fingers. Pausing, he takes a moment to survey the classroom. With a sharp downward movement he strums the beast, turning the gain knob to slowly fill the room with distortion.
Then, with a subdued ferocity, he plays “Eruption” by Van Halen. Several children cover there ears, a few are completely stunned, but the rest smile.
At the end of the song he is sweating, and there is a smattering of applause.
MCLAREN: Now, what did you think of that, children?
Little Tommy Tuberville raises his hand.
MCLAREN: Yes, Tommy?
TOMMY: That was bad-ass.
MCLAREN: Come up here and give me a high-five; that’s what I was looking for.
Stumble It!
To My Fellow Three Terrible Excuses for Turtles:
This has been a long time coming, dudes. It’s been itching to get out of my shell. Frankly, I don’t know why it took me so long.
I’m leaving.
No surprise there, right? I’m sure you might have been able to guess by the way I’ve been acting lately: lack of skateboarding, eating organic foods instead of pizza, crying, not being down to kick foot-soldier ass, etc. Things are just so hard when you don’t feel apart of anything anymore.
I think at the beginning I was naïve; I wanted so badly to just fit in. You guys, with your cowabunga this, and totally awesome that; you guys were so cool. At least I thought so. Looking back I can see that the joke was on me all along.
For starters, when we were deciding on bandana colors I remember you specifically urging me to go with purple because it was “time to make purple a bad ass color”. I should have trusted my instincts: purple is the gayest color there is. Even that fucking gay teletubby was purple. I know now that you guys voted on giving me purple as a joke. Splinter told me.
The theme song: “Donatello does machines”? Yeah, the mind doesn’t wander with that one at all. Raphael, I remember you specifically saying, “Dude: You does machines. That’s like, so fucking cool. It’s like you don’t just work on them, or build them, or fix them. You does them. That’s rad.” I can’t believe I fell for that. And what did I get out of it? A lifetime of robot sex references, and free vacuum cleaners; that’s what.
Weapons: Okay, Leonardo gets the sword because he’s the leader; I get that. But why does Michelangelo get the nunchakus? Half the time the he doesn’t even know what he’s doing with them, he just flails around and randomly hits guys. He has no skill (sorry, dude). You think he’s ever beating Shredder one on one? It’s pathetic. Look, I know the real reason I got the bo staff is because its long, phallic, and made of wood. You guys suck. You really do.
Finally, I’ve got some personal gripes:
Leonardo, our so-called Leader. Man, ever since April took off with that camera guy you’ve been such a whiny BITCH. I’ll let you in on a little secret: she was never in to you, man! She thought you were too self-involved. She actually told me that…after I fucked her!
Raphael: Cool but rude? Give me a break. Not only are you not cool, but you’re a roid-raging alcoholic. Rude doesn’t even begin to describe you. Borderline retarded is a word I would use. Casey Jones is 10 times the man you are. I hate you the most, you asshole.
Mikey: Damn, I pegged you wrong. It hurts the most to know you were in on all of this; all the shaming, the pranks, the back-stabbing. I thought we were buds. I liked our style. Now? Now I don’t know what to think. It’s tearing me up, dude. Fuck Raph and Leo. I’ve heard them talk shit on you. One day they’re just gonna forget to cover you, and Rocksteady will be there to harpoon your ass. You can bet on that. Here’s some advice: Lay off the extra cheese, throw out the bong, and get a job. You’re going to be dead in 5 years the way you’re going.
Well, that’s it. I’m out. And I’m taking the Turtle Van.
A hero in a half-shell no longer,
Donatello
Stumble It!
I’m a really big fan of this shirt. I don’t know what I would do if I lost it. The barista at Coffee’s On, Christine, said it made my smile stand out. I was wearing it with my khaki shorts and my Timex that day. She didn’t say anything about those.
Stumble It!
I’m sinking slo-oh-oh-ly
I’m floating right in place
Looking up at that night sky
Wondering how the stars have changed…
Got my arms spread out
To catch whatever comes
Got my back all wet
So I’m not the dead
Waiting to find out, the secrets of the world
Ha, ha, ha is what the world says
Laugh all you want
But most of us can only see through little holes
Pins and needles
Stumble It!
A Day in the Life of Vinnie Wood aka Mr. Kill-To-Death (former Vampire/Demon Hunter)
Breakfast:
Woke up at 10 today. Still tryin’ to get used to this new sleepin’ schedule. It used to be go to bed at dawn, wake up at 4 in the afternoon. I miss those days. I also miss steak. I know what it sounds like, the whole “stake/steak” thing, bein’ contrived or whatever, but let me tell you: When you wake up at 4 in the afternoon, sun blazing through your blinds, you feel like steak. You just do. Now I don’t feel like nothin’. The wife bought me some organic oat bran fiber cereal that I’m tryin’ta get used to. It’s no steak, but I gotta say, I think they’ve got somethin’ going there.
I also took a shit.
Work:
Don’t really have a new job yet. And by “don’t really” I mean “don’t at all”. Life used to be so easy: portal to hell opens up, I grab my crossbow, bada-bing, bada-boom, demons turn to dust, and I go home. Then rumors start runnin’ through the city offices that they’s gonna stop with the paid hunter positions, citing “high interest in volunteer slaying”. And so I says “WHAT THE FUCK?” I mean, seriously, you can’t just have any ol’ dumbass off the streets patrolling the areas lookin’ for fangs to slay. At least that’s how I see it. I worked my ass off to get where I am. It’s not as simple as it looks, but with the economy the way it is, they’s cuttin’ jobs everywhere. The mayor still finds a way to pull home six figures, tho. Funny thing there.
I think I’d get a lot further if I didn’t have that fuckin’ Communications degree. I should go back for my MBA.
Night:
The night. The night is the worst. I can’t sleep, that’s for sure. I just feel the urge, you know? My muscles get all tense, and I have visions like this one tonight where, like, these super big-time vampires were takin’ over the world, and in it I’m just twiddlin’ my thumbs in the basement, all oblivious to the death and destruction that the hellspawn is layin’ to the good peoples out there. My world is upside down. I’m questioning myself, and I’ve never done that before. They took my livelihood away. Every time I say to my wife, “Darla, I’m goin’ out for a stogey,” she says to me, “Vinnie, it’s 3 o’clock in the mornin’. I knows you ain’t goin’ for a stogey, and I ain’t gonna let you kill no vampires pro-bono. Now, get your ass to bed, or go highlight the jobs section of the classifieds.” She’s got me there. I’m an artist who only works on commission, if you get my meanin’.
So when the world starts turnin’ all black as night and you start seein’ fires and demons comin’ up from the bowels of the earth, don’t blame me; blame the Mayor of Stuberville. I’ll be in my basement, thank you very much.
Stumble It!
This is the second installment of “Crooked Creek Cut the Valley So Deep”: a (hopefully) continuing weekly story. There is no real outline for it yet, but maybe it will go somewhere. Stick around to find out…
Conrad Christopher was not one for making decisions. He could spend an afternoon deciding which hill to climb, and just as he’d made up his mind the sun would disappear behind it. It never posed much of a problem; his mother saw her boy in thought and thanked the good Lord he had a working brain. However, this disability would prove most inappropriate as Buddy Anderson settled to the bottom of Crooked Creek.
As Conrad paced the shoreline – wondering whether he should fish Buddy off the bottom himself, or run into town to find someone stronger – Buddy Anderson was unconsciously swallowing enough water to drown. After several minutes of debating the pros and cons of each he decided he could still be the hero. He was too late. Plopping to the ground with the body at his side, Conrad could think of only one person: himself.
Sitting there, unable to commit to any of his new choices, Conrad Christopher’s mind wandered off into his immediate future. Mostly he thought of the bruises he would receive from his father, but he also pictured the shame that would walk with him through town. He thought of these things as Buddy Anderson’s future fled from the world.
If Conrad knew what it was to feel regret, he might have been sick to his stomach. It is a common thing among young boys to forget (or to have never had it dawn upon them) that their actions may bring unwanted consequences. Had he seen the rock, lying just below the surface, waiting for that very moment when it would cease to be a rock and become a killer, he might have stopped mid-shove. In this imaginary hesitation, Buddy, still on dry land, might have suffered a pinch of the crawdad’s claw, thrown it back into the creek, and ran home clutching his bleeding index finger.
The thought of what might have been was too much for Conrad Christopher. Instead of letting his own future be determined by someone else, he made a quick decision; the first of his young life.
Stumble It!
On my way to work this morning I walked past the alphabet written in sidewalk chalk. Each letter was written twice – in upper and lower case – and I couldn’t help but think that the little person who scrawled them on hands and knees had some guts. I vaguely remember writing out the alphabet like this on sheets of paper with bold lines to stop your capital letters from leaving the page, and dotted-lines teaching you how low to fashion your lowercase a’s. Twenty-six times two equals fifty-two; fifty-two new rules to learn. There was a certain pride when you could show your parents how sharp your letters looked on the page. But to show it to the world? Not a chance.
After thinking about this for a block I turned back to my ego-centric view of the universe and realized: this kid stole our idea! It was all there: the letters transformed by sidewalk chalk into a piece of art, and simultaneously on display for all to see. It was The Unlimited Freedom Castle…taken to the streets! I think I’ll take a picture of it and post it on the site. Maybe the kid will want to contribute.
Stumble It!
Day 37:
Today has been hard to comprehend. I’ve walked about with no real goals in mind, and I’m beginning to think that my purpose here is dwindling. How else can I make sense of the strange things that I have seen? It seems much easier to assume that I am in fact disappearing with each passing day. As I become less and less real, the world begins to seem as if it were a terribly told lie.
The tigers (real and ferocious) are being snatched up by giant sparrows. They look like the ones that used to perch on my mother’s bird feeder and clumsily spread sunflower seeds on our lawn. What troubles me isn’t how the sparrows fit the tigers in their claws; rather I wonder why the tigers seem not to care. As the sparrows circle overhead the tigers gingerly crane their necks to observe their tormentors. With no will left to run there is only surrender. Lowering each leg until prone, one last breath is taken and held – soundless and still, they await their consumption by beak.
Stumble It!
Flash brilliant blue!
All the coast shimmers and
Out past the horizon
There is an island disappearing.
This is manifest destiny
The gold is no longer in the hills
Instead, it hides behind our eyes
Escaping on sunny days
When stirred enough to glow again
And awake that old feeling
To dream
Stumble It!